Joshua Hodson-Smith spent much of the pandemic listening to an obscure record called Panther Phobia, by Memphis band Tav Falco. It was the mix of swampy blues and dark poetry on tracks like Cockroach that seemed to capture the mood of endless lockdowns. And after dabbling in selling records online, Hodson-Smith finally quit his warehouse job to open Footscray Records last July.
“With the virus, no one knew what was going on. I hated work and wanted out of a bad situation,” he says. “I’ve been collecting records for years and so I just went for it. There was no real plan. I looked for a spot and then leant in. It hit me the day I signed the lease – I knew it was suddenly real.”
So how is the new venture going? “No one opens a record store to get rich, but I’m super proud of opening in Footscray. And it’s growing every month.”
The store looks like an art gallery: white walls are tiled with colourful record covers; there are specially curated sections of Australian psych, free jazz and Afrobeats. A deep knowledge of music is palpable, along with a delight in the offbeat.
“My priority was doing things as cheaply as possible,” says Hodson-Smith. “I managed to kit out the whole place for $2,000. I went to Bunnings and got the floorboards and I had mates who helped tie everything onto roof racks. Most of the money goes on importing music from all over the world. I’ve got a guy in west Africa who drives around in a van with his brother looking for the best stuff. He sends me pictures on WhatsApp and I order straight from him.”
Footscray Records is one of a new wave of record stores that have opened across Australia since the pandemic ended. With in-store gigs and record signings, these stores offer a much-needed boon to the music industry, decimated by years of cancellations for tours and festivals. Vinyl records, once relegated to dusty crates in charity shops, are now big business: record sales began outstripping CD sales in Australia in 2021, and revenue from vinyl purchases last year jumped almost 23% to $36.9m, making up 63.4% of physical music sales by dollar value. By comparison, CD sales saw a 17% year-on-year decline in 2022.
Records are now a sign of optimism in the economy, one that defies the odds. And this optimism is not limited to capital cities.
“Tweed Heads is a strange border town,” says Kim Lloyd, who recently opened Badlands Vinyl in the area with his wife Sylva. “The advantage is there’s nothing much around, so we’ve become a magnet for the local community. There are not many all-age venues any more, and we put on lots of live music. Families come down. People bring their kids. A bit of pride is coming back here. The streets are really alive again.”
Sylva says the pandemic was devastating for their family. “Kim used to run a travel agency but it closed almost overnight. It was a really weird time. We travelled around Australia, trying to find out what our next steps might be. Then we lost our son. And when he passed away, it really gave us the inspiration to open Badlands. We wanted to do something meaningful. I’m so glad we did it.
“Our regulars are a lot of high school kids who could just stream stuff for free,” Sylva adds, “but they want to get the new King Stingray album on record.”
19th Nervous Breakdown in Sydney takes its name from the Rolling Stones hit about a woman who’s losing her mind. The shop is run by couple Sarah Baker and Tom Scott, who opened their doors earlier this year. The Stones song resonated because of the pandemic’s many trials.
Beyond standard reissues, the store specialises in second-hand records. Bauhaus sits among Bad Religion; they stock “easy listening erotica”. It’s a place to dig for real gold, with many original pressings up for grabs. It’s also a DIY dream factory, with screen-prints on the walls, a range of local music in the racks and piles of zines by the door.
“We met when I was 19,” says Baker. “Tom ran a record label called Black Wire and I went to the launch for a seven-inch he was putting out. Ever since we’ve been involved in live music around Sydney. I’m the facilitator of the business. Tom has the vision and I get things done. I keep an eye on the accounting and do what I can to keep things afloat. We’re a great team.”
Scott says they run the store differently from many others. “I don’t have an account with the major labels. We don’t order from them because their wholesale prices are just ridiculous. They can’t justify them. Instead, we get a lot of personal collections in, dealing with people directly. It’s strange because we are very involved with people who make music and love music, but we fly under the radar of the industry. We’re here for those who can’t afford $50 for a record. I love it when people come in to have a look around, even if they don’t buy anything.”
Speaking with Breakdown’s customers, there is a sense that vinyl is here to stay. “People used to collect things,” says one man in a Behemoth t-shirt. “Now it’s all streaming and ads. Records are physical and tactile. They help separate the connection that everyone has between music and their phone.”
A girl in a school uniform says Khruangbin is always playing in her house. “I look at the cover and kind of go inside the music. The artwork makes me feel like I’m actually dancing in some weird Thai nightclub.”
Her friend interrupts. “Everyone at school is into records. You can roll a joint on the cover of Dark Side of the Moon – can’t do that with Spotify.”
Record Store Day is on 22 April.
